


Socially Inappropriate Behavior

by Badfaith



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Grinding, Hemospectrum, M/M, Oral Sex, Quadrant Confusion, Socially Inappropriate Behavior, Tentabulges, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 21:37:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Badfaith/pseuds/Badfaith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gamzee displays some socially inappropriate behavior and Equius does precisely jack shit to stop him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Socially Inappropriate Behavior

**Author's Note:**

> Homestuck kink meme fill. Original prompt:
> 
> Gamzee and Equius are hanging out together when Gamzee starts lazily touching himself. Equius promptly turns bright blue and attempts to ignore it, but after a few minutes, he can't take it anymore and verbally lashes out at him, asking him what he thinks he is doing. Gamzee's all, man, sometimes a motherfucker just needs to get his touch on, you just keep on doing what you're doing, don't let me bother you... And he keeps on rubbing himself while Equius fidgets like mad and tries to focus on his roboti%, which is really hard to do when someone is fondling himself just a few feet away. Eventually, it breaks him, and sexy times happen.

Your name is Equius Zahhak and you are very good at fi%ing things.  
  
But try as you might, for years and years, you cannot figure out what went so obscenely wrong in the creation of this troll. There is truly _nothing_ salvageable about him except the stuff that's swishing in his veins, and even that is po100ted by an array of harsh chemicals. You've 100ked into it extensively.  
  
He dr001s, makes stupid, irritating noises, behaves with reprehensible submission that spits in the face of everything you hold dear, and most importantly: _touches himself inappropriately in the company of his platonic friends._  
  
He's stretched out lazily against the foot of the relaxation cushion. His soda lies at an odd angle, forgotten and discarded near the sole of his foot. You watch in fascinated horror from your peripherals as his thumbs stretches the waistband of his ridiculous polka dotted pants. Once there's enough space, his huge hand slides past the barrier of fabric, down his waist. You can feel your throat tightening and drying out into a husk when you see the fabric clutching as he unmistakably curls those fingers around something in his pants-- and--- and---oh dear, oh gosh, he _c_ _an't_ be.

 

\-- _no_. You sputter, turn around. Denial. Persistent denial. You stare at the digit you were working on-- literally a mechanical finger, disembodied on your lap. It's still got circuits sticking out of it. You poke it feebly with a screw driver. It twitches. Nothing could possibly be so uninteresting.  
  
God and the Mother help you, you breathe in the powerful scent of his arousal, taste the musky flavor on the roof of your mouth in a way that fills you, shames you and look back over your shoulder, damningly. Your shirt is already wet and sticking to you you chest. You push off from your desk and stare openly.  
  
You can see his forearm tense when he squeezes. The expression on his face as he does this horrible, wretched act is nothing short of utterly disgusting, it's half lidded, serene and indulgent, as if he is simply scratching an unsightly itch. His wrist starts moving and you begin to hear thesesounds.

 

You should have known. Why did you bring him here in the first place? All of your interactions consist of him telling you an impressive variety of things you don't care about while you gnash your teeth in rage until you inevitably insult him on every possible level. Then he stares stupidly while you fumble with your apologies.  
  
You want to tell him to stop, you really do, and then forcibly expel him and his licentious practices from your hive once and for all. The problem is, you just can't speak. Your voice has taken sick leave. Your face is burning, you're so, so sweaty, what's more you're beginning to fidget in that unappealing way which Nepeta says is 'creepy'.  
  
You watch the muscles in his face relax and tense as he leans back, eyelids fluttering blissfully, painted mouth open. His rat's nest of hair is in his face and pillowing his head as he leans back in a pleasured arc. He looks like he's having far too much fun.  _In front of you_ , you're mental voice shrieks, _in your gosh darned hiv_ e. 

 

Finally, something locks in place inside you and blessedly, your actual voice, the one that makes a reasonable amount of noise, returns. It sounds hoarse and flatly indignant, because there is no way you have the capacity to sound as panicked as you feel.  
  
“Highb-- Ga....Highb100d, what...” Your tongue wags until you press it down and swallow, your head jerking back as your chest stings and your voice sounds like a cowardly, hapless impersonator of your usual rumbling drawl. Your lungs have just stopped working.   
  
“What the fu...fu...... _fuck_  are you doing”? You wring your hands.  
  
“Honk. Never heard you use language with the wicked passion in it, man. “  
  
Sweat rolls down your back, you tremble. It makes no difference to him that you just went and cursed in your sanctity of your own home. He looks back with infuriating bark-beast-like placidity, calmly simmering in those beautiful purple eyes. It's entirely his damned fault.  
  
“Sometimes a brother just has to get his touch on.” He hasn't even stopped. You can still hear him doing it as he's  _speaking_  to you. “When the motherfucking urge gets all down in your guts and pays a nice comfy visit, you gotta make it feel welcome, you know what I'm sayin'? You gotta do right by you. Get a nice glow goin' in there".  
  
“ _That dosen't even make any sense_ ”! You snap back, feeling your fingers itch to wrap around his throat and pop his head clean off. Your muscles feel tense and tingly with profound black intent. You want to cause him pain. He's making you feel uncomfortable again. He's making you crazy again.  
  
“I'm sensing some distress" he says, sighing blissfully. There's no way he's not high as a cuckoo's nest right about now. "You should get in on some of this, Equibro, it helps an ornery motherfucker relax”.  
  
Your damnation is already swollen and straining against the crotch of your shorts. It's so wrong to be enjoying this, you are so reprehensibly disgusting on every level imaginable for deriving any pleasure from his gross misconduct.   
  
But how can you help it, when you smell him like this? That scent comes from his breeding, when you breathe it in something powerful inside you wants nothing more than to commit every act of blasphemy right along with him, and beg him to tell you when to jump and how far.  
  
 _He won't tell you anything of the sort, he's a f001 in King's clothing_ , you remind yourself in a last ditch effort at reason before your instincts take over.  _Equius Zahhak you are a disgraceful lout, you know from past experience that he is not-_.  
  
Nevertheless, you're getting up , moving closer. You watch him watch you as you situate yourself in front of him, big STRONG you, trembling like a miniature yipbeast on your knees. Finally, there's some inflection in his tone. Too little, too late.  
  
“Equibro”?  
  
He still doesn’t stop fondling himself. He knows how to make it last. He'll speed up to a jerk, squeeze himself, slow down to deft, lazy strokes, making a variety of pleased almost musical little mumbling noises. Are some of them actually mixed in with humming? At least it's not honking.  
  
 _This has to be deliberate_ , you tell yourself.  _A test for me. An invitation to show how well I can serve_. That's it, that's exactly right (no, it's wishful thinking).  
  
“I..” You preface just to stop him, inhaling. “I...”. Your hand reaches out and stops the jerking motion of his wrist. It must've hurt him, just a little because he winces. But he doesn’t flinch, he simply regards you.  
  
“Hey fancy-friend” he's searching your face, still panting“If you want this randy motherfucker mhmh--- to all up and relocate his business elsewise, you only had to ask”.   
  
You're too concentrated on what your doing to realize that you never actually asked him to stop. You get the tips of your claws around his pants and slide them down his sharp, distinctive hip bones. It's a definite improvement from sugar-stained polkadots. He's too skinny, but you can only imagine how attractive that expanse of skin would be if he just fed up a little.  


He's not wearing undergarments, his slick, deep indigo bulge is twitching around his now still palm, nudging up against it as if plaintively begging for more attention, wondering why the petting has so abruptly stopped. It's big. Not as big as yours, but slender, and long and perfect, just like the noble crown of his horns.  
  
There's something about the way they are shaped that makes you want to kiss them and wreathe flowers around him, and there's a similar experience happening here. It's possible that when you mentioned all of his salvageable features, you left off a couple for propriety's sake. You're spell bound by being so close to all that dripping indigo, and the urge to consume it, consume  _him_ , is both a relief and a curse to your mortal soul.  
  
Is his voice getting lower in pitch, or is it just you? One of his hands is touching your face, rubbing his thumb over one of your angular cheek bones.  
  
“Your face is turnin' bro, and this motherfucker has to make a proclamation, color's good on you”.   
  
He breaks your reverie with a meaningless quip, but it just slides off you like water. You're subservient now, the more things he says to expose you, the better. His hand finds your dark curtain of damp hair, let's it slide through his fingers and starts to stroke it. “If  _that's_ where your pusher's gonna push you then get after it, my mighty fine friend”.  
  
Your heart swells, you didn't even ask for permission. He just gave it to you because he knew you wanted it. Licking your lips you gently place your heavy hands on his hips. He slides down fluidly until his groin is level with your nose.  
  
You bend your head and your mouth seeks the cool tip of his bulge. It curls at your lips almost into a knot that's provides this wonderful heaviness. His genetic fluids coat your lips and start to dribble down your chin, sacred and shining. You lick once, across the tiny quivering tip and it tenses, before responding by prodding against your mouth in a testing sort of manner. Gamzee can sense the deep warmth inside your throat and wants in. He's watching you calmly with his eyes still half closed, occasionally slipping his fingers from your ear to trace over the base of your unbroken horn. “Fuck Equibro, mhmmm...”.  
  
You relax your jaw but keep your lips pursed so it strokes itself on the way in. You can feel the electricity make it's way back to Gamzee like a pulse through a circuit, the connection solidifying when he shudders and gives you a bit of praise that seems to glow inside you. Was this the glow he'd mentioned earlier in one of his idiotic rants?  
  
It normally would've made you sick because it's slang and it's stupid, but directed at you and grunted in that husky tone, it couldn't have been more lovely. “That's motherfuckin'  _choice_  man.” 

 

His thin body is all done up in tense layers of arousal, and you, , you're hard and leaking, staining your shorts because you know every twitch and tremble is your handiwork. He sighs and you can't help but grind yourself ever so slightly against the floor. There's a deep, dirty satisfaction in the action, so you do it again, his bulge wrapping around a throaty groan that comes from your chest.  
  
You lose yourself in the rhythm of this, deliberate suckling only broken when you have to chase down stray drops of precious purple fluid with your tongue, preventing as much as you can from going to waste on his thighs or the carpet below. The idea of it painting your face, staining your mouth makes your hips grind your bulge into the carpet. You can feel it thrashing and curling in on itself.  
  
At some point his free hand snakes out under you, palm rubbing across the hard plates of muscle on your abdomen, feeling them up under your sweat stained shirt until he reaches between your thighs. You almost let his bulge slip out when you back off from him instinctively. Reciprocation was never part of the plan.   
  
Blessedly, you hear him growl at you, just this one forceful expulsion of breathe. Maybe it's your imagination. You allow yourself to hope it isn't. You quaver before going still, delight curling hot inside your guts. He starts palming you, pawing crudely in this blunt, humiliating way through the fabric, giving you something to grind into as you continue to go down on him.  
  
The fabric chafes and the heat builds deliciously the more you do it, feeling the continuing wetness and stickiness flood you with discomfort as your encased bulge struggles and receives the kneading pleasure almost unwillingly. It has nothing to grab onto but itself, and there's no pail in sight. It's almost agony. You love it.  


When you begin to tune into the deep sighs rattling in and out of Gamzee's frail ribcage, you can feel yourself acutely starting to shiver. You're damp all over with cold sweat.  
  
The slick organ knotted at your crotch starts to pulsate, and your full mouth responds with harder pulls on Gamzee's bulge. His hand wraps firmly around your horn and pulls your head closer as his hips press down on you, nearly choking you as his bulge starts to writhe inside you.  
  
Gamzee makes a beautiful sound when he releases, and upon tasting it, you swallow desperatly, but there's no way you can swallow it all. You feel the fluid leak out of your mouth, down your chin and throat, staining your shirt in an indigo flood.   
  
The sight of all of it makes your vision blur. Your eyes sting in tears of semi-religious ecstasy, while your body is distracted by cruder things and reacts in the only way it knows how.   
  
It comes and comes violently, , despite the fact that you never even got out of your clothes. The sticky discomfort you experienced before is now ten fold, magnified to ridiculous proportions. You're a dirty slut, coming without a pail, but you are pardoned by the fact that you did it  _for him_. You're making a mess on your own floor as you flounder, gasping praises at him.  
  
But you don't care because it's overwhelmed by pleasure that is so, so, purple. You float in the purple fog of your vision and doze in it like a recuperacoon, still vaguely aware of the hand on your head.  
  
It's still stroking your hair in that same patient pace as if the whole thing had been a sopor induced delusion. 


End file.
